So. Some things have happened. You should expect diversions and tangents, I think.

First, you should know that I am eating a lentil soup that tastes like beef, and that it is extremely pleasing. Understand that I have not eaten beef in years, and that this probably tastes nothing like beef at all. (The primary indication of this fact is the detail regarding my enjoyment of it.) Rather, this is probably what beef would taste like if I were the one in charge of all matters of taste and aesthetics, as it should be.

I met Neil. He was what people, including Neil himself, had led me to believe: he was charming, and very good at reading us stories, and gracious, and patient, and a little bit self satisfied. The part that I liked best was before he read anything when he came in and shook hands and mingled with all of the best professors I've ever had. I suppose I should have expected that most of the English department would be there, but there is something kind of neat and strange about watching five or six of the people who did rather nice jobs of completely reorganizing my brain hang out and chat and seem to like one another. The other part that I liked best stemmed from that: he was introduced by Samuel Delaney. Thus far I've only read Times Square Red, Times Square Blue and an autobiographical graphic novel about his meeting his current primary partner. (All that Meredith, who gave it to me, and I can ever remember about it is that it contains more illustrations of spunk than we'd been expecting.) Delaney has never been a professor of mine, but he did do a question and answer session in one of the best classes I've ever taken. I admire him greatly, and I am always pleased to see him on campus, so I was just as excited, I think, to hear him speak again as I was to see Neil for the first time. Back to Neil: he read a poem and a story, and they were both delightful and new and about aliens and things like them just as much as they were about not being very good at getting laid. He signed one thing for each person. I'd only brought one thing: Bill's copy of 1602. He hadn't gotten my message about the signing, and screamed a bit when I showed him the name and the note written in bold silver. I had another favourite part: I enjoy etiquette. Being polite is one of my favourite games. Not only did Neil allow me the opportunity to play, but, I think, he was very good at accepting it, if that makes any sense at all. I like to open doors and to give up seats and to serve in small ways, but I am used to people not seeing that there is, in fact, a person holding that door for them. But he was gracious, and he took on the game I was playing without trumping me. It was still about him, in other words. He knew the steps of the dance. And that is so rare! I was greatly impressed, and it made me like him a little bit more than I had. As usual, having had a taste of it, I want it more than I had. Why do we not live in an age in which the rules matter? Why is this not a time in which breaking them is a risk, a defiant, brave thing? I will always be discontent.

I went out for breakfast the next day with my mother. We went to Sabrina's, which has the best breakfast in the city, and we had pumpkin and cinnamon pancakes and she had coffee and I had tea. I ran into an old classmate who is taking queer theory (we both wish I was in the class) and who called me Jack. My mother either didn't notice or didn't understand or remained silent. Strange, but I'd somehow forgotten that my family does not have words for this until then. They know what it means, perhaps, without knowing what it is. I am conflicted about this. We went to the store where I ensured that the boys gave her only the best fish, and where she bought me pasta and bagels.

I took the train and I visited Bernie and Linda, who gave me reiki and Saint John's Wort oil. We went to sushi, which I'd missed terribly. I accidentally mentioned pornography in front of the small ones. I promptly bit off my tongue and died. Upon my recovery, Charlie and I discussed cartoons: Boondocks and Samurai Champloo and the ones that are all the fault of Aqua Teen, which is a horrible show and has spawned even worse ones and all of them should be burnt. I was terribly excited to hear this, as I have been saying this for months, and, thus far, no one has agreed with me despite the fact that I am right. He and Kim and the small ones told me about their trip to Japan. The story included gigantic fish being cut up in interesting new ways in a barricaded, labyrinthine marketplace and a mountain covered in guardian monkeys and secret shrines. Bernie and Linda and I returned to their house where we watched The Guru, which is a delightful film, and one that I recommend, especially as lately I do not want to watch or hear anything that is not about India and transnationalism. I slept there and then I took the train and then I went to work.

I am working with a new person, Joe. He is older. Everyone thinks he looks military, or like he'd been in prison, or like he could detonate at any moment. I agreed, until he came out. I'd suspected it, but once he did all of the nervousness and stiffness fell off of him. I'd not seen it work like that before. I liked it. He said that he came out later in life. He was married and had a son. That was ten years ago, and he is still with the person for whom he did it. I liked that story, too.

I've been spending a lot of time attempting to seduce Megan, and Megan is spending a lot of time trying not to seduce me, and we're both failing more than we're not. It is something like chess, and frustrating and enjoyable in all of the right ways. My focus remains on finding other things, but this is nice. I appreciate her attentions.

Bill informed me that, despite the fact that I've not slept there in some time, he recently found a pair of pinstriped trousers in his bed, and assumed that I was leaving a sort of calling card. I am well pleased.